Davis stood in line and practiced his order, tall skim latte. The Finns were three customers in front of him. Terry had picked Justin up into his arms to keep track of him in the crowded shop, and the boy was staring back in Davis’s direction, running a toy car across his father’s shoulder. His blond hair had thickened, and his parents had let it grow long in back, probably the result of a tantrum he’d thrown at the barber. His face had thinned. His nose was red from a bug; his eyes were royal blue. He giggled at something his father whispered in his ear, and Justin whispered something back and giggled some more. Davis tapped the bulge of camera in his pocket. How strange would it look for a local (and somewhat renowned) doctor to be taking photographs of customers at Starbucks?
When it was Davis’s turn to order, he got change from his five and joined the waiting crowd at the end of the counter.
“Dr. Moore!” Martha Finn said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Martha, thanks.”
“Terry, you remember Dr. Moore.”
“Of course,” Terry said. He shifted Justin in his arms so he could extend a hand for shaking. This would be almost the last time Justin could be held this way. In a few months he would be too big for his father’s thin arms to handle. “Good to see you.”
“How’s Justin doing?” Davis asked.
Terry turned the boy around, and Justin pressed his chin to his father’s chest, shyly.
“Just great. He’s getting over a little sniffle now, but he’s been terrific.” Martha wiped Justin’s nose with a paper napkin like a housewife tidying the living room in front of unexpected guests.
“Glad to hear it.”
A teenager called the Finns’ order and Martha tucked the cups into round cardboard insulators. “He has an appointment with Dr. Burton in a few weeks. Maybe I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll try to peek in while you’re there, if I can.”
“Wonderful. Good-bye now.”
“Good-bye.”
“Justin, say good-bye to Dr. Moore.”
“Bye.”
“Good-bye, Justin.”
By the time Davis’s latte arrived, the Finns had backed out from their parking space and gone. To the zoo or the mall or the club.
He drove home and, after a quick search of the kitchen, asked Jackie where she kept the Yellow Pages.
– 21 -
Barwick was in bed but not asleep when Big Rob called. Her mother had phoned from New Orleans around seven and they had talked for over two hours. Or it had resembled a conversation, anyway.
“Did you know your sister is getting married?” Mrs. Barwick asked.
“Of course I know, Mom. They’ve been engaged almost a month.”
On the other end of the line, Mrs. Barwick was performing some task in the kitchen, the clanking of plates audible under her train of thought. “Oh, I didn’t know if she’d told you.”
“She told me. You and I have already talked about the registry. And I know you know I know because you haven’t asked me about boys since it happened. I figured I’d won a reprieve.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Barwick said. “Have you been looking for a job?”
The first syllables of Sally’s response came out so loud, the cute guy upstairs must have heard them, even with the TV and the vacuum on. “ Jesus, Mother. I have a job.”
Mrs. Barwick said, “Yes, but I only tolerated this spy stuff you do because I figured you’d give it up when you got married. Now I want you to have a career. The way modern science is going, maybe I don’t need you or your sister. Maybe I can clone myself a grandson.”
“Investigation is a perfectly good career, Mom.”
“What is? Chasing cheating husbands and taking dirty pictures through the soiled windows of cheap motels? It’s no wonder you hate men.”
“I don’t hate men. I had a date on Thursday.”
“Tell me everything about him.”
And so on.
When the phone rang again twenty minutes later Sally figured her mother had been unsatisfied with her choice of last words and wanted to take another stab at it. She tossed the Tribune crossword puzzle off her lap, sending the cat running, and turned down the radio before reaching for the phone.
“This is a weird one, Barwick,” Big Rob said.
“What have you got?”
“I just had a beer with Phil Canella. Seriously, I oughta move this operation to the burbs. He’s got more business than he can handle. The closer you get to the Wisconsin border, the more suspicious the spouses, I guess.”
“What’s up?”
“Remember the Finn case? The parents of that clone boy who wanted the scoop on the cell donor?”
“Yeah, sure.” Truth was, she hadn’t stopped thinking about Justin Finn.
“Well, there was another private eye at the bar with us, a friend of Philly’s. Scott Colleran of Gold Badge Investigators. You heard of him?”
“No.”
“His office is way up north. By Six Flags in Gurnee. Anyway, we met up for happy hour at the Toad, swappin’ stories and whatnot, and it turns out Scott’s got a client who wants pictures of the Finn kid.”
“What? No! Who?”
“Come on. Scotty’s not gonna give up his client. We’re in the confidentiality business, remember?”
“Confidentiality doesn’t apply inside the Ten Toad Saloon, apparently.”
Big Rob laughed. “We were just talkin’. Anyway, that case got you so worked up when we were on it, I thought you’d think that was funny.”
Yeah, some crazy old man looking for snapshots of five-year-old boys. Hilarious. “This Colleran guy isn’t serious about taking the case, is he?”
“Sure he is. Why wouldn’t he?”
“What if somebody’s casing a kidnapping? What if the client’s a child molester?”
“Nah, pedophiles take their own pictures. Or they buy them on the Internet. Besides, Scott checked him out. Says it’s on the up-and-up.”
“Good. Scott Colleran checked him out. I guess the children of Chicago can walk the streets safely.” This was the sort of sarcasm Sally’s mother hated.
“Come on. Colleran’s all right. Like I said, he vouches for the guy.”
“I told you there was something unholy about that Finn case, Biggie,” Barwick said. “This is all related.”
“Relax. It’s probably just a run-of-the-mill custody deal.” He paused and Sally could hear him take a bite of something crunchy over the phone. “So do you want the job, or what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Same as Philly, Gold Badge has more work than they can handle. This is what I’ve been talkin’ about: an office in the burbs. Anyway, I knew you had a hard-on for the Finn case so I told Colleran you were a first-rate shooter and looking for some extra work. The job’s worth four hundred to you, minus my commission. Four-fifty, if you can get it done without turning it into a conspiracy. Or worse, a moral dilemma.”
Sally knew this was a horrible idea. She also knew she couldn’t say no to a chance to snoop around the Finn case. “What sort of pics are they looking for?”
“Close-up. Face only. Nothing for the raincoat crowd. Front and side. Mug shot deal, or as best you can get without being noticed. You’ll need a telephoto.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Biggie.”
“That offer of four-fifty is for a limited time, hon.”
This was a test of sorts, she realized. Big Rob was alternately encouraging and skeptical about her long-term prospects as a private investigator. He was clearly fond of her, but he also wondered if she (or any woman) had the constitution to do competent work for questionable clients. Information is morally neutral, he’d say. You have to be as well. “Yeah, yeah. You know I’ll do it. You’ll get me the address?”
“Got it right here.”
Three mornings later, Barwick sat on a man-made slope overlooking a soccer field, casually snapping photos through a long lens. The sky was Chagall blue with a single Ma
gritte cloud. The air was comfortably cool and dry. Below, boys and girls chased one another across a truncated field. There were nets and lots of uncalled hand balls and, occasionally, even goals, but no one kept score. It was difficult to tell who was on what team, with kids in both jerseys tending to gang up on the one closest to the ball. First-year players, teenies they were called, were still finding their way in the game.
Through the lens, Barwick found and lost Justin a dozen times, snapping the shutter when she could catch him between the back-and-forth and the up-and-down. She recalled Eric Lundquist’s face, kept fresh in her memory by a recurring dream, and tried to match it against the boy’s, almost two years older than when she took on the earlier case. She supposed Big Rob might have been right. Lundquist could be the donor. There might be an explanation for the birthmark. Maybe the old woman had forgotten. Maybe she was lying. Maybe it was some sort of genetic quirk. Sally had known identical twins in high school and she could always tell them apart. Their ears were a little bit different. Maybe one had a birthmark and the other didn’t. What did she really know about genetics, anyway?
On the job, Barwick wished she could be more like Big Rob, wished she could keep her curiosity on a leash. But how could she watch this kid through the camera, violating him with each exposure, and not wonder who was paying for this and why? She’d been trying to think of an explanation that didn’t churn her stomach, and to this point she’d come up with nothing.
“Which one is yours?”
Barwick brought the camera down between her knees and turned toward the voice. She was sitting about six feet to Sally’s left: petite, pretty, not as old as most of the other moms. She’d brought a picnic basket, a cardboard carton of juice with a straw, and a home magazine.
“Oh, no,” Barwick said. “I mean, none of them are mine. I’m a student at the Art Institute. This is for midterms. Big show. You know – Innocence of Youth.” She laughed. “It’s a whole big theme or something.”
“I thought you were a little young for the mom thing.”
Barwick waved her hand. “I’m not as young as you, am I?” The woman blushed. “I’m Sally.”
The mother put her juice down and stretched her body close enough to extend a hand. “Martha Finn,” she said.
Barwick thought immediately of the different ways Big Rob might tell her she’d blown the case. Sarcasm was the most likely approach, but he could just as well choose a violent tantrum. He could decide she was unreliable. A flake. He could stop calling with work.
Still, have a spaz now and she’d no doubt make things worse.
“Nice to meet you,” Barwick said.
“Do you mind?” Martha asked, lifting her basket and making a motion with her shoulders in Barwick’s direction.
“Please,” Barwick said and the two scooched closer together.
“You’re a photographer?”
“A student. Someday I’d like to call myself a photographer.”
“Are you getting anything good?”
“Yeah,” Barwick said. “The sun’s a little bright. There’s such a thing as too nice a day when you’re taking snaps. Lots of shadows.”
“Taking snaps,” Martha said. “I like that.”
They watched the game and chatted for a while until Barwick realized that Martha probably expected her to take pictures, so she pointed the camera toward the field and took a few hastily focused pics of the other kids.
“Hmmm,” Martha said. “Could I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
Martha pulled a cheap digital camera from her bag. “You can’t get a decent shot from the sidelines with one of these. Would it be too much to ask you to take a few photos of my son? I’ll pay for all your film.”
Barwick giggled and Martha joined her. Everyone friendly. She hadn’t blown the case after all.
“Of course,” Barwick said and raised the camera to her eye. Another critical mistake, almost. She pulled it back down and smiled. “Which one is yours?”
– 22 -
It took about ninety seconds for a nurse to inform Dr. Burton that Dr. Moore’s black Volvo had pulled into its spot, and another minute or so for Joan to say good-bye to her contractor, who had called with a few questions regarding the tiling she’d selected for her new bathroom. Following that, it was a ten-second walk from her office to his.
“Can I talk to you, Davis?”
Davis looped his collared jacket over the top of the wooden coat stand, caught the whole thing as it toppled, and then wrestled coat and rack until they were in balance. Joan Burton looked fantastic. Under her smock, the silk shirt she wore billowed in the right places. Her hair was pulled back today, and the elastic at the back of her neck strained to contain it. He imagined the band snapping and waves of dark hair crashing around her face, hiding and revealing it like a dance of veils. At first, he didn’t even notice she was upset.
“Sure, Joan. What’s up?”
“You know Justin Finn?”
Davis was certain his face didn’t betray panic, but he quickly slid into his chair, where his knees trembled unseen. “Sure. Something wrong?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.” Joan shut the door and perched on the edge of the chair nearest his desk. In one hand, she held a large gray binder with a white sticker running down its spine. The label said XLT-4197, which was the office code for Justin Finn. Of the dozens of clones who had been conceived in his clinic, it was the only code number Davis had memorized. “Is he okay?”
“The kid’s fine. It’s our control that’s gone to hell.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I just did his five-year checkup,” Joan said. “There’s been a colossal screwup, and when I report it, you’re gonna take the heat. We all will, actually, the whole clinic, but mostly you.”
Christ. The five-year. Davis knew this was coming; Martha Finn had even mentioned the appointment when he saw her at Starbucks. Somehow, this morning, he hadn’t been ready for it. “Tell me,” he said. He hoped something would occur to him. Sometimes solutions make themselves. Not often in Davis’s case, unfortunately. He was a plotter. A plan-aheader.
Voice lowered, Joan said, “This kid isn’t who we claimed he is. His DNA doesn’t match the donor. Hell, he doesn’t match any donor on file. I don’t have the slightest idea where he came from.”
Davis said nothing. She’ll keep talking, he thought. Joan hates silence. Since the day she had joined the staff at the clinic, Davis had often counted on her to answer her own questions when others were slow to respond.
“This is a nightmare. How do you think it could have happened?” she asked. “I have a theory, and the disciplinary committee might let us off with a slap and a fine, but who knows what the parents might do? If they decide to sue… Do you remember that couple in Virginia last year? Jesus Christ. Anyway, I was looking back through the files, and around the time the Finns were being prepped for implantation, we fired this young admin after a long list of screwups.” She turned pages on a legal pad. “Tardiness, bad reviews, poor attitude, complaints from the nurses, complaints from patients. About six months later he was brought up on drug charges in McHenry County, dealing designer drugs to teenagers or some shit. I don’t remember him that well, but I recall Pete having to testify at his trial. Do you remember that?”
“I remember, yeah.” Davis did remember the kid. That had seemed like a big deal at the time. There were lots of nervous meetings between the partners. New Tech’s reputation was on the line. Their license had been threatened. But Joan was right. That was nothing compared to this.
“Anyway, I can’t prove he had anything to do with it – not yet – but if we dig around a little bit, we might find he had access to the samples, and that might be enough to build a case against the guy. I have a feeling.”
Davis stared at her, thinking, trying to forge a blank look that would hold the silence but also provide emphasis no matter what he said next. Joan was offering an answer of sorts. She had tried to s
olve the mystery with a story that turned out to be more plausible than the truth, and now that he’d been caught, Davis felt stupid and lazy for not leaving a trail of lies to a likelier culprit than himself. Now he was tempted by the opportunity to put the blame on a punk kid who was already in prison. The repercussions for a doctor found guilty of illegal cloning could be devastating: loss of license, possible jail time, shame. To a convicted drug dealer, however, the consequences of the sort of negligence Joan was suggesting would be, well, negligible.
There would be an investigation, though. Perhaps a trial. Testimony. Controversy. This story made sense to Joan, and others might believe it, as well. Still, the last thing Davis needed was scrutiny, and this had the low rumbling of a rolling snowball gathering size.
“Joan,” Davis said, his hand on the back of his neck.
“What?”
“It wasn’t any admin with access to the samples.”
Joan’s face twitched as her fragile denial shattered like blown glass and fell away. “Oh, God, Davis. Do not tell me. Do not tell me you’ve known about this.”
Davis nodded.
“Goddammit!” she screamed. The legal pad bounced off his desk and landed sprawled on the floor. “Do you want us all to lose our goddamned licenses?”
“Let me explain.”
“Can you? Really? Can you explain how a fuckup like this happens and you don’t tell anybody? How long have you known?”
“I’ve always known, Joan.”
She glared.
“There wasn’t any fuckup. Justin was born of the same DNA I had scheduled for the procedure.”
Joan’s voice dropped to a croaking whisper, the result of nausea, he supposed, acid reflux. “What are you saying? This is some sort of experiment? If you’ve been conducting live trials on your own, there’s going to be a shit storm, and the disciplinary committee is just the start of it.”
Davis hoped Joan would be able to read his lack of expression.
“Well, who’s the donor, then?” Joan asked.
“I don’t know. I cloned him to find out.”
Cast Of Shadows Page 9